she spoke with a sort of coerced restraint that made me sit back and look at her. She met my stare without flinching.
"You'll swear that?" I said. And still again it impressed me that this quiet-voiced woman knew more of that house and its mysteries than she cared to talk about.
"I swear it," she replied, looking back over her shoulder, for a tap had plainly sounded on the hall door.
The next moment that door swung open, and the little old weasel himself stepped softly into the room. It rather astonished me to see that he was holding a handkerchief to his eyes. I even thought I heard a whimper or two as he hurriedly shut the door. But the moment that door was shut behind him he had the handkerchief stowed away, and his ferrety little face was peering about in every corner of the room. He reminded me of a somewhat worried stage-manager inspecting his "set" before the curtain rolled up.
"What's wrong here?" he demanded, as he sidled over to where the nurse was still holding me down in bed by the arm. I noticed a new note in his voice as he spoke, a note of power, a note of authority.
